


i (do not) know you

by grinningCalamity



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Falling In Love, Mid-Canon, Multi, No Canon Characters Appear, Pre-Canon, but it happens like. over a period of hundreds of years, how do I even tag this, individual warnings given for each chapter in the beginning notes, its monster lesbians falling in love okay, technically?? like. nothing has happened that means this COULDNT happen, thats it thats the story, there will be more tags in the future. but ill add those when i get to em
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23390755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grinningCalamity/pseuds/grinningCalamity
Summary: As humanity grew and learned and became, so did the fingers of the Stranger alongside them. There were others, of course- the Neither, belonging not to humanity nor to the Stranger- but they were of little relevance to the Either, so they were largely ignored.And this was all well and good, until a peasant woman woke up to find her husband replaced, and her children none the wiser.And this was all well and good, until a sailor returned home to find his sister replaced, and the townsfolk ignorant of the change.And this was all well and good, until the appendages of the Stranger began to strike out on their own.~~~Two NotThems learn to find a familiar comfort in each other's incomprehensible natures.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	1. the beginning. (was there ever one?)

**Author's Note:**

> TWs: Language that could be interpreted as unreality/body horror.

Once upon a time, there was a Somebody. And there was a Somebody Else.

Where the Somebody walked in the sun, the Somebody Else lingered in the shade. While the Somebody danced, the Somebody Else stood to the side. And when people called out the Somebody’s name, they never took notice of the Somebody Else’s pale figure behind it.

Who would not have grown envious?

It was only a matter of time, really.

~

The prophesied date came and passed, and nothing changed. The Somebodies and the Nobodies rarely came together, and as the dawn crept in, they slunk away to their hidden homes, disquieted but defeated, conceding to isolation for another millennium. The Skin-Takers and the Face-Changers once more donned their cloaks and masks, as the Dancers and Acrobats drew back into the inky shadows of NotBeingKnownIAmNothing.

And the Somebody Else discarded itself to begin anew.

The Stranger did not stand from the ashes of its former self. Such an action required a degree of personhood that defied its very nature. But it did come into itself as a crab may come into its shell- growing and filling and becoming until it reached its bursting point, at which point it burst.

There was no sound when the Stranger fell apart, because the Stranger did not fall apart. The most apt description might be that it simply shed flakes of its outermost layers, like peeling the skin from an onion or shucking the husk from an ear of corn. These flakes, like scraps of shredded paper in the wind, came to rest upon the hearts of humanity until the fear covered their oh-so-delicate minds and souls like sheet metal.

They were not children of the Stranger, just as they were not the Stranger itself. Rather, they were fingers, tendrils, ominous eldritch appendages thereof, pushing their way through the wet tissue paper of reality into the physical, sensible world in which humanity tends to reside.

And the nameless shapeless formless selfless Nobody wrenched open its jaws and began to feed.

~

Time had little meaning to any aspect of the Stranger. For one which existed at such a massive, cosmic scale, the business of seconds and minutes and hours and eons was trifling. So the Stranger had no concept of “how long” or “since when” or “from now on”, and so it is impossible to know precisely when the change began to occur. However, it can be said with certainty that whenever, wherever, and however it started, something shifted. A regularity turned anomalous; one cog out of alignment to reinvent the entire product. The appendages of the Stranger began to gather their own autonomy.

As humanity grew and learned and became, so did the fingers of the Stranger alongside them. There were others, of course- the Neither, belonging not to humanity nor to the Stranger- but they were of little relevance to the Either, so they were largely ignored. 

And this was all well and good, until a peasant woman woke up to find her husband replaced, and her children none the wiser.

And this was all well and good, until a sailor returned home to find his sister replaced, and the townsfolk ignorant of the change.

And this was all well and good, until the appendages of the Stranger began to strike out on their own.


	2. Medieval

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter: Alcohol/drinking, mentions of alcoholism and underage drinking.

Darwyn Rolfe had never been a patient man. And yet, as he sat here in this alehouse, no drink in front of him, staring holes into the wine racks, not even knowing what he waited for… he knew he would wait as long as he needed to.

Lettice Baxter had never been a proactive woman. And yet, as she walked the long road to the next town over, never having traveled once in her life, without the spare money to rent a room out, not even knowing what drove her so passionately to this location… she knew she would walk as long as she needed to.

When the bell hung over the establishment’s door rang in announcement of a newcomer, Darwyn Rolfe turned his head to take her in.

When the man at the bar raised his gaze to her, Lettice Baxter returned his stare impassionately, appraising him quickly.

Darwyn Rolfe cracked a smile, motioning stiffly, jerkily, for her to come over.

Lettice Baxter delicately seated herself at his side, ignoring the barkeep entirely, eyes locked onto the man’s own.

“Fancy meeting you here,” said Darwyn Rolfe, his voice croaky- though whether that was from disuse or misuse, it was hard to tell.

Lettice Baxter watched him a moment longer, before breaking the contact to look straight ahead. “Indeed.” Her voice was soft and sandy, and if the barkeep had strained his ears, he might have thought her inflection seemed… odd.

“Fancy meeting you at all,” He continued in that rough, scratchy voice.

“Indeed,” She repeated, seemingly unbothered by his sound.

“May I get you a round?”

“I don’t drink. Awful stuff.”

If you asked Lettice Baxter’s brother, he’d have told you that she’d been an avid drinker since they were teenagers, stealing their fathers beer and ale whenever she could. But Lettice Baxter’s brother was not here.

“Mm. I try to avoid it, myself, but… well, on special occasions, a little alcohol never hurt anyone.” He winked at her.

If you asked Darwyn Rolfe’s wife, she’d have told you that he was an uncontrollable alcoholic; that he drank nearly ‘round the clock. But Darwyn Rolfe’s wife was not here.

“I suppose. Do what you like,” Lettice Baxter replied.

Darwyn Rolfe did not call over the barkeep. He did not ask for a beer, or a whiskey, or an ale. He didn’t even look away from Lettice Baxter’s face.

There was something delightfully wrong about her face, and he knew exactly what it was.

He knew she saw the same thing when she looked at him, as well.


	3. Elizabethan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter: mentioned death

Darwyn Rolfe and Lettice Baxter were long dead by the time they next met.

They’d been dead the first time they met, too, but that was somewhat beside the point.

Wiborough Underhill was an undertaker’s daughter, and Christmas Addicock’s father had just passed. They lived in the same town, so the sensible assumption is that through the incident, they met each other.

Sensible as it may be, that assumption is also incorrect.

By the time they met, Wiborough Underhill and Christmas Addicock were thoroughly deceased.

Christmas Addicock had never considered themself a man or a woman. Though they had rarely spoken of it out loud, neither gender seemed to suit them quite right, like they were trying on jackets, and one was a bit too snug in the shoulders, and the other a bit too loose. Their father was one of the people in whom they had never confided this fact, although they had certainly intended to. They were very close to their father. Before they could say anything, however, they died, and he died, and before they knew it, Christmas Addicock was knocking on the village undertaker’s door.

Wiborough Underhill unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door just a crack, peering through to see the young adult on the other side. After a moment, she undid the chain lock and pulled the door open completely, standing aside to allow the other entrance into her and her father’s home and workspace.

“It’s a nice place,” Christmas Addicock commented absently, but they were not looking at the room. They were only looking at Wiborough Underhill.

“It is,” Wiborough Underhill replied, closing the door gently behind them. “What brings you to it?”

“My father. He passed last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“They don’t think he suffered.”

“A small comfort.”

They gazed at each other for a small while longer.

“My father is out,” Wiborough Underhill explained. “He’s working.”

“That’s all right,” Christmas Addicock answered her. “I don’t think we need him, do we?”

“...I suppose we don’t,” She concluded. “Not for this.”

Christmas Addicock removed their coat carefully, hanging it on the coat rack in the corner by the front door. “Not for this.”

Wiborough Underhill turned and began to walk away with practiced daintiness. “I’ll put tea on.”

“Tea would be lovely.”

Neither of them needed it. Both of them knew this.

But it would surely be interesting to see how long the other would go before finally breaking character, they both thought. 

Sort of an experiment.


	4. Stuart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for this chapter: Mention of religious homophobia

Bridiet Lowe and Cecill Froste eloped when they were 18 and 19 years old, respectively.

Bridiet Lowe was an orphan raised on the streets, and therefore had no family to speak of.

Cecill Froste was raised by parents who, true to the time, were strictly religious, and thought that any sort of homosexual action would be utterly damning. She did not care for her parents.

Having met when they were 14 and 15 years old, it didn’t take long for Bridiet Lower and Cecill Froste to pin down and identify their feelings for each other.

They held out for four years, and then vanished in the night to a distant countryside village, where they would play their charade of sisters while acquiring supplies to build a small cottage, isolated in the woods, in which they would live out the rest of their lives in happy, self-declared marriage.

Bridiet Lowe and Cecill Froste woke up after their first night in their new forever home, made eye contact across the bed, and, respectively, sighed and cracked up laughing.

Cecill Froste swung her legs off the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to her in an invitation which Bridiet Lowe begrudgingly accepted, crawling over the covers to sit next to her spouse.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” Cecill Froste said, through her too-wide smile. “One of us is going to have to change.”

Bridiet Lowe rolled her eyes, resting her cheek on her hand as she leaned forward. “There goes that.”

Cecill Froste paused just before speaking, instead watching her wife carefully for a few moments. “...It’s always you.”

Bridiet Lowe gave a small smile that was almost hidden by her hand. “What does that mean?”

“I know it’s always you. Every time. It keeps being you.”

“Who am I? Who is there for me to be?”

Cecill Froste gave her wife an intense, searching look. “I think… you’re you. And I think that’s enough.”

Bridiet Lowe closed her eyes. “And who are you?”

Cecill Froste grinned, and it again stretched at the corners in a way it really shouldn’t have. It was sort of endearing, if you asked Bridiet Lowe.

“I’m Cecill Froste,” She said. “Who else would I be?”

“Of course,” Replied Bridiet Lowe, reaching over to lace their fingers together. “My apologies. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Mm. Happens to the best of us.”

“How would you know?”

“Well! Excuse me?”

If they stayed Cecill Froste and Bridiet Lowe a little longer than they otherwise might have- well. Nobody was around to comment, so it didn’t really matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters are short, but that means I write them faster!  
> As of now, I've written through Chapter 4. I'm going to aim for a biweekly update schedule- Tuesdays and Fridays, maybe? Except for the first chapter, obviously, since I've posted it on a Sunday night.  
> Thank you so much for reading!


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